


The Ice Man and the Fire

by SilentAuror



Series: The Ice Man and the Virgin [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Mycroft Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:08:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Mycroft Holmes story, set entirely within series 2. When Mycroft interrogates Moriarty, he learns something he suspected all along. Background pre-Sherlock/John. Part I of II.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ice Man and the Fire

**The Ice Man and the Fire**

**Part I**

Coventry. 

It was and remained the singular word that, like a spanner thrown into the inner mechanisms of a great machine, shut the entire works down. Obvious idiom, but functional: his brain the great machine, the spanner, Coventry. 

Mycroft’s entire career had been built upon his cold and calculating brilliance, his ability to focus, to pinpoint and eliminate problems, threats, complications, and annoyances with swift and efficient tactics. His detachment and coolness were legendary. Those who worked beneath him treated him with a respect that bordered on fear (in some, occasional cases, near-worship); even his superiors tended to tread lightly around him. While his erratic younger brother had become rather celebrated for his problem-solving abilities, even whispers of Mycroft’s name could reduce an entire wing of the government to strained whispers, panicked reorderings of affairs, and even hasty dismissals of unworthy employees. Anthea had once reported to him with some amusement that she’d overheard someone say that Mycroft’s presence was like living in a state of ongoing internal audit. He had smiled at that. Good. He ran a tight ship, both above board and below, and had a zero tolerance policy for lack of obedience or lack of competence, which was nearly worse. 

The only region to which his considerable control did not extend was that of his brother, and given that Sherlock was beginning to gain more and more respect in the public eye, this was becoming problematic. Mycroft couldn’t have given a toss about the public eye (frankly, being in the spotlight would reduce his power, not increase it; he existed in the shadows and preferred it that way), but Sherlock’s very single-mindedness could make him hopelessly naïve. 

Coventry was a perfect example. Sitting at his desk, he thought through the entire business again. The day that the call from Adler had come in, patched through precisely eleven levels of security before reaching someone important enough to deem it worthy of passing on to him. He hadn’t spoken personally with her until he’d called her back. Given the nature of the call, he’d decided it was best to deal with it himself. The least security risk lay in a direct approach, quite often. He remembered her voice on the phone: smooth, honey-sweet, a touch cloying. He’d found it slightly distasteful and simultaneously deduced that it must be quite effective. Given her line of work, surely she knew what worked and what didn’t. Not that it mattered to him in the slightest. He’d taken the call, contacted Harry at once and discussed the matter. It had been Harry who’d suggested going to Sherlock. Mycroft had protested immediately. His brother’s amateur crime-solving was certainly effective enough, and Mycroft had trusted him with matters of considerable importance and security in the past, but ever since that ugly business with Moriarty had come up two months prior, he’d begun to realise that the wrong sort of people were being baited by his brother’s work. Best to keep him from poking his inquisitive nose into a matter such as this one. 

Unfortunately, Harry couldn’t be dissuaded. Swirling a cut-crystal snifter of thirty-year-old whisky in the conference room to Mycroft’s right, he’d pointed out Sherlock’s incredibly high ratio of success. “And besides,” he’d added, “who else could we go to? This is too sensitive to involve our own people, Mycroft, you know that.”

Mycroft had been grudgingly forced to admit that he was right. And furthermore, it wasn’t as if Sherlock had anyone _to_ tell. Besides the good doctor, of course. Mycroft’s ongoing, perplexed amusement at the continued presence of John Watson in his brother’s life knew no bounds, frankly. He had no idea how anyone could tolerate not only working with Sherlock, but also _living_ with him. As one of the only other people on the planet who had ever lived with Sherlock before, Mycroft could personally attest to the difficulty that lay therein. And it had surely got worse since Mycroft had left home permanently, ages ago, Sherlock just twelve years old. Now, at thirty-four, solving crimes and having access to a morgue, thanks to that susceptible nitwit Hooper, Mycroft was certain that living with him must be a stranger experience than ever. And yet, there was John Watson, a seemingly-normal man, if perhaps a bit volatile after his time in Afghanistan, carrying on this domestic arrangement in seeming peace. Contentedness, even. Mycroft did frequently wonder if Watson knew what he’d got himself into, if he could see the effect his presence had had on Sherlock, and what that signified. While Mycroft was entirely certain that Sherlock was still more or less unaware of the extent of his attachment, he was equally certain of its existence. He had drained his own glass at this point in the conversation, set it on the table with just a touch of extra weight to demonstrate his frustration, and sighed. “You’re right, of course, Harry. The problem is that Sherlock is not exactly… civilised company. He’ll be rather out of his depth, socially. I don’t know that he would know how to speak to someone like your client, or even you. He’s generally an embarrassment, a social oddity.”

Harry had smiled, slight lines appearing between his eyes. “You’re not very complimentary,” he’d remarked. 

“Oh, he’s clever enough,” Mycroft acknowledged. “Certainly. He is _my_ brother, after all; there’s nothing wrong with his brain. Just his appalling manners. He sneers at everything that someone like you or I would hold dear in terms of decorum and class. He’ll be as likely to refuse to help just to spite me as to accept it to perplex you.”

Harry had made a thoughtful sound and gazed toward the fireplace. “What could I do to persuade him? What would make him more amenable to working with us?”

Mycroft had felt his lip twist in an annoyance he was at a loss to pinpoint, precisely. “Bring Dr Watson along. Let him be involved. If he can’t persuade Sherlock to do something, no one can. He’s really the only person who has any influence over him whatsoever.”

Harry’s brow had quirked up at that. “His… ‘friend’, you say?”

“His flatmate,” Mycroft clarified darkly. 

“Of course I know who Watson is,” Harry had remonstrated mildly. “The blogger. The assistant. I didn’t realise they also lived together. Are they… ?” he’d asked delicately, deliberately trailing off and leaving Mycroft to fill in the distasteful blanks. 

“No. Not to my knowledge, at least, but I don’t think so,” Mycroft had said. He’d decanted the whisky and poured another tot, gesturing at Harry’s glass with the bottle. Harry had nodded, accepting with that oh-I-really-shouldn’t-but-go-on-then attitude that British men of a certain cultural level had perfected so long ago. He’d go on, adding, “I can’t pretend to know everything about Sherlock’s life, but he foreswore interpersonal relationships like that a long time ago. I always assumed it was merely due to his widespread unpopularity, but he seems to genuinely have no interest in that sort of thing.”

Harry had sipped, eyes not leaving Mycroft’s face as he’d considered this. “And yet, here he is, living with someone that he also works very closely with. If he’s as much a loner as you say, that seems rather… exceptional.”

“It is that,” Mycroft had agreed dryly. “I have no idea how or why it seems to work, why Watson hasn’t moved on, yet there he is.”

“I’ll be sure to include him,” Harry had promised. “Your brother’s security clearance is unquestioned, given his relation to you, and I’ll make an exception for Dr Watson. Especially if you think it will help. Your people will let me know where I can find him tomorrow morning, then?”

“Of course,” Mycroft had agreed, giving way, and it was settled just like that. The day that Buckingham Palace would send for his little brother, asking for his help, was one that he had not particularly thought (or hoped) to see, but apparently it was inevitably happening now. 

Throughout the meeting, Sherlock had been himself to a tee, even predictably so. Although Mycroft couldn’t have predicted his choice to refuse to clothe himself like a normal adult. When one of the agents had called to surreptitiously alert him to the situation on their way over, Mycroft had rung off and slammed his fist down onto the polished wood of his desk. How bloody typical, and the sheer cheek of it – his brother needed a slapping. And then, after that embarrassing debacle with the sheet, Watson had quietly said something under his breath and Sherlock had given him an unreadable look and wordlessly retrieved his clothing and gone to put it on, leaving Watson chatting in strained smalltalk with Harry while Mycroft fumed to himself even as he set about ordering tea service. He’d thought John would be more helpful from the beginning, especially after his grand arrival from the wilds of Wales, but when he’d walked in to find them giggling helplessly, Sherlock still not dressed, he’d thought about walking right back out and telling Harry flatly that the plan was off. Thank God Watson had come through in the end. 

Afterward, Harry had been kinder than necessary. “He _is_ brilliant, you have to admit,” he’d said, a little too admiringly. 

Mycroft had been annoyed by this. If Sherlock was so brilliant, how was it that he needed a flatshare to help pay the rent, while he, Mycroft, occupied the position of influence that he did? He didn’t express this, just agreed tersely, and apologised again about the clothing, the attitude, all of it. 

“Not necessary,” Harry had said, waving it off. “I was quite impressed by him, regardless. Eccentricities of genius, wouldn’t you say?”

Oh, so now Mycroft wasn’t eccentric enough to be warranted a genius? He’d begun a slow burn. One that he’d kept entirely to himself, of course. Decorum was the civilised man’s armour. (As he’d thought this, he’d thought of John Watson and his illegally-obtained SIG and felt he knew what Watson would have said in response to that. Never mind. Different classes, different weapons.) The entire visit had gone over surprisingly well, considering Sherlock’s rudeness and seeming determination to humiliate him. First the clothing, then his childish behaviour regarding the anonymity, his remark when Mycroft had poured the tea, even his juvenile response as they’d left. At least John could be counted on to behave himself, even if he had nothing suitable to wear to Buckingham Palace. (Even if he had known when he’d dressed himself that morning, he wouldn’t have had anything better from which to choose. Those shoes were probably the best he owned.) Sherlock at least looked the part when he was actually wearing his clothes. If genetically melded together, they would make a singular fully acceptable man. Mycroft sighed as this thought crossed his mind. 

He’d watched Sherlock immersed in the immediate problem of the photographs, only slowly twigging in to the rest of it, long after Mycroft’s people had begun conversing in back channels with the CIA and Interpol regarding that damnable camera phone and whatever else was on it. Unfortunately, as so often in these cases, no one’s intelligence was willing to admit the extent of what they either knew or didn’t know, as both sides of the coin revealed considerable strategic weakness. Mycroft understood all too clearly, but the fact that so many people wanted it made its value therefore incomparable. Between the taunts he’d begun receiving by email, post, and even text message from Moriarty, Mycroft had been at something of a loss as to how to proceed, for once. 

And meanwhile, he’d watched Sherlock immerse himself into the riddle of Ms Adler with an avidity almost equal to that of his unshakeable interest in Moriarty. In the end Adler proved to be merely another angle of Moriarty, just another face to the same villain. Sherlock had approached the puzzle with the direct and naïve innocence of a child, once again, and was flummoxed in being faced with not only an adult woman, but a conniving, scheming, clever woman who had enough personal cunning to deduce the average adult male on a personal level, and plumped full of the resources and information of Moriarty’s operation, as well as the man’s not inconsiderable personal deductive abilities concerning Sherlock (and himself, apparently) behind her, she had been very much Sherlock’s match. And while Sherlock was quite brilliant enough to match wits with Moriarty and Adler’s combined intelligence alone, he knew nothing whatsoever about dealing with women. He remembered his brother’s profile in the morgue on Christmas Eve, as closed and unreadable as ever, but Mycroft rather felt that he was mourning the loss of his puzzle more than Adler herself, even if at that moment he hadn’t yet been capable of separating the two concepts in his head. That had come later, to Mycroft’s private relief. While he normally relished seeing his brother stumped (so long as it were not on a case assigned by Mycroft himself, of course), he’d felt more than relief at his brother’s sardonic “Sorry about dinner,” the familiar bite of contempt back in his tone. He’d felt a touch of pride as well. _Good, Sherlock; see through her the way you were meant to._ And here, surely, John Watson served another useful purpose in Sherlock’s life as a model of normal, moral adult: he thought of people in terms of right and wrong, good and evil, nice and not nice. Sherlock cared only about interesting versus dull. Adler had been interesting, to his personal detriment, as Moriarty still was. Mycroft was at a loss to explain what interest Sherlock found in John Watson, but then again, he remembered making a similar remark himself. Ironically, to Anthea, who, ironically, didn’t find Watson interesting in the least. And yet even Sherlock seemed to be aware that his John functioned as his touchstone in matters such as these as well; he’d referenced him aloud in front of Adler, no less. John Watson: the man who provided Sherlock with a reference point for love, morality, even a sort of prosaic nobility (the courage of the soldier, wounded in action for Queen and country): the higher ideals of the average man. The Holmes were different: apart. By choice or by nature was anyone’s debate and not one that interested Mycroft particularly. 

They were different, the two of them. Howsoever he’d started, Mycroft had by now made himself who he was by choice. There were no questions, no ambiguities. A new acquaintance would never have dared ask about his personal life, sexual leanings, or political entanglements as of their first dinner together (all of which had evidently transpired between Sherlock and his flatmate shortly after Mycroft’s meeting with the latter). One wouldn’t dare presume, with Mycroft. Nor would one assume anything regarding his personal life; his established barriers were sufficiently high that no one would never have considered questioning it. Mycroft had heard office rumours concerning himself as well: a machine, people said. Ruthless. Cold-blooded. And his personal favourite, Moriarty’s nickname for him, as relayed through Adler: the Ice Man. It suited him perfectly. It was the most complimentary nickname Moriarty could have chosen. It was meant as an insult (at least coming from the lips of a woman who considered herself to have outwitted and scorned them both), but Mycroft was proud of his walls. They had been cultivated with decades of practise. His drawl of scorn was not merely upper crust/public school; it was a tool used to establish status and retain it. Part of an elaborate and invisible skill set. Let Sherlock mock him for his struggles with his physical shell (alcohol sugars had never metabolised well on him); Mycroft was his mind and his functions. Little else mattered. 

He suspected his brother would say the same thing, yet while both Holmes brothers took considerable care of their outward appearances and the images they cultivated, Sherlock had yet to manage to fully shed a certain underlying insecurity, a slight sense of self-doubt never entirely effaced by his arrogance or appalling, confrontational disregard for appearances (never one for happy mediums, Sherlock). Witness the sheet. John Watson would come to Buckingham Palace for tea in denims and a cotton t-shirt; with Sherlock it was either a sheet with nothing under it, or one of those perfectly-tailored suits he wore with such casual, almost overdone elegance and feigned assurance. Mycroft could see that the assurance was at least slightly feigned. He wondered if he was the only one. What they had in common: the distasteful solitude of being as gifted in their shared powers of observation. It could be truly lonely being the only one able to see that which was so patently obvious, yet so apparently invisible to the rest of the world. 

He sometimes thought it a shame they didn’t get on better, yet every time they spoke he was instantly reminded of why. It didn’t matter. Ancient history. Their relationship was what it was: they worked together when necessary. He didn’t want more, and neither did Sherlock. 

***

The fall-out after Coventry had been swift and not unexpected, yet still uncomfortable in the extreme. While Sherlock had recovered more than enough information by finally decoding that detested camera phone, the absorbed loss of the aborted Coventry project was still enough to warrant a thorough raking over the coals, a process which Mycroft hardly cared for at the best of times, and his position was made considerably weaker given that it was his own brother in question. Not that Sherlock knew or would have cared if he had. Mycroft had stood his ground, arguing the loss of the jumbo jet in the first place and pointing out that this was still a more than adequate balance for the man-hours spent on gathering the requisite data that had fuelled the necessity of the Coventry project regardless. He had won, finally, but with a few chips in his armour and his superiors had been quite displeased. That sort of respect was hard to win back, once lost, and he had indeed lost status on this. Sherlock would never care, never appreciate the work that had gone into developing that respect, no understanding of what a long and arduous process that could be, nor how unrecoverable it was once lost. Why should he care? Sherlock was only concerned with status where his intellect was concerned, and even then he hardly cared who knew about him, or having it celebrated by a wider audience. Oh, there was an ego, certainly, but a real egoist would have published articles, become a professor to better demonstrate his brilliance and intellectual prowess. Or had a reality show. Much as Sherlock loved to show off, he did it for small and select audiences, and then only as a side benefit to the real force that drove him: the need to understand and take apart. 

Mycroft wondered occasionally how Watson put up with this, or if Watson somehow relished being taken apart and understood. Or was the reason the doctor had survived Sherlock so long simply that Sherlock had not yet managed to fully deduce him? Distinct possibility, that. Sherlock hadn’t realised yet – hadn’t caught on to his own, school-boyish crush. What was patently obvious this time was a blind spot for Sherlock: his own heart, though Mycroft also considered that there was potential for a significant gap between the heart and the mind in this case. Perhaps that was why he required an externalised heart in the form of John Watson’s, worn directly on the sleeve. Although also sporting a distinctively similar crush and relative blind spot. How amusing, really: the consulting detective and his sidekick, unable to deduce their own relationship while famously bringing down the world’s twisted and brilliant. This time the joke was truly private, as apparently only Mycroft himself was in on it. 

Meanwhile, he put in longer hours at the office and spent slightly less time staring into the flames at his flat or the curiously solitary public company of the Diogenes Club. He resorted to the tedious legwork of networking and solidifying connections and useful acquaintanceships. He widened his circles. Never a social man, Mycroft Holmes could nonetheless work every inch of potential gain out of a cocktail party. He knew how to be charming, when to apply pressure, when to imply underlying subtext too sensitive to put voice to, and he knew how to create the ghost of a threat, as imperceptible as a cobweb. He knew how to manipulate people who didn’t want to be manipulated, and how to create allies out of enemies. Sherlock could act; he’d seen him do it and was sure that by now, Watson had seen even more of it than he had. Sherlock could spin out a very convincing character indeed, at least for as long as his interest held – which was generally not very long. Mycroft, on the other hand, sometimes spun out entire feigned relationships over the course of years. 

The truth was, all of the relationships in his life were feigned. They were all spun upon the notion of whom and what he was, and all of that was a created reality superimposed: deliberately false. He granted no one access to the real. There were no cracks in the armour. There was no vulnerability. He had made himself a fortress, impenetrable and secure. He had built it over the course of forty-one years and refortified it daily with knowledge, with status, with a dense tapestry of connections and allies. No friends. Friends were a susceptibility. 

He’d tried to reinforce this notion with Sherlock recently. They rarely spoke in terms of personal strategies or mottos; such a thing seldom occurred within the confines of their narrow relationship. But that night at the morgue, on Christmas Eve, Sherlock had turned away to gaze dispassionately at the grieving family at the far end of the hall and asked his rhetorical question. Mycroft had hoped it was rhetorical, at least; Sherlock was too old to still be trying to come to terms with who he was. _Do you ever think there’s something wrong with us?_ Wrong with _us_ , he’d said, not wrong with _me_. His question managed to encompass not only the fact that he was aware that his detachment was sometimes looked at in askance, that it was considered abnormal, but also that he was aware that Mycroft exhibited the same behaviours, and furthermore, the fact that he was asking about it suggested he was troubled by it. Mycroft had frowned internally. What was Sherlock really asking? Was he upset by Adler’s (supposed) death? No – the fact of having asked the question suggested that he felt he should be more troubled and was troubled by the fact that he wasn’t. This smacked of Watson’s influence, again. Perhaps Sherlock had now witnessed Watson’s predictably distressed reactions at the deaths they so frequently encountered in the line of Sherlock’s work that he had become aware that his own lack of reaction was not only unusual but potentially problematic. Problematic for Watson, specifically? Mycroft had considered this. Quite possibly. Surely the doctor was bothered by Sherlock’s demonstrated glee at the prospect of a fresh murder, more interested in the method than emotionally compromised by it. (Why should he care? It was hardly as though he knew the victims personally.) But Watson was the sort of simple, narrow-minded, empathetic individual would likely _did_ have a problem with Sherlock’s detachment. Yes, that was it: Sherlock was at the stage of his yet-unrealised emotions that he was troubled by his would-be partner’s disapproval. Mycroft had given his succinct response then, trying to include a subtle warning: _All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage_ , and then, the added weight to underscore his point on a more personal level, _Sherlock_. He’d been talking about Watson, not Adler, and hoped that Sherlock would catch his unspoken point. 

Perhaps he had. There had been no evidence that, in a fit of contrariness (his usual reaction to any advice given by Mycroft), he had gone home and finally dragged things out into the open with Watson. There was no outward change in their relationship, but the fact that Sherlock had still referenced Watson in that final confrontation with Adler concerning Watson’s views of Sherlock’s perceptions of the inner workings of love, it was still on his mind. And also served to prove that he had not yet advanced anything between them. Mycroft imagined it was for the best; Sherlock in a romantic relationship bespoke disaster, and John Watson was a heavily moderating influence on him – an influence that Mycroft personally would prefer to keep in place. It was really for the best that the inevitable relationship drama had not yet blown up. 

Since Watson had appeared on the scene, Sherlock had neither taken up using again nor had he smoked again, with two singular exceptions to the latter: after the incident at the pool with Moriarty, Mycroft had dropped by the flat to discuss the event with Sherlock and found him alone in the sitting room with a cigarette between his fingers, gazing into the empty space near the chair opposite. Mycroft had deliberately put himself into his brother’s line of vision by sitting down into that space (Watson’s armchair, he knew, as he also knew that Sherlock hated when he sat there – another sign of his increasing sentimentalism concerning Watson, of course). Sherlock had twitched his gaze away, annoyed. 

“What do you want,” he’d said, now letting his eyes settle on a patch of worn carpet somewhere to the right of the chair. 

Mycroft had frowned at him. “I thought you’d quit smoking.”

“I did.”

“Started again, have you?”

Sherlock had shrugged, bony shoulder twitching through the silk of his blue dressing gown. It was four in the afternoon and he had not yet dressed for the day. Likely wasn’t going to, by the looks of it. He’d tapped the excess ash into a teacup. “We need an ashtray.”

Mycroft had studied him, covertly glancing at the teacup. No previous cigarettes, at least not today or in this particular room. “Nasty business the other night at the pool,” he’d remarked. 

This hit the mark, he could tell: Sherlock’s shoulders had tensed, then deliberately released. “Yes,” he’d said, too obviously feigning calm, almost a lack of care. “Rather nasty.”

“Quite remarkable that any of the four of you left alive.”

Sherlock’s eyes had found him then, narrowing and sharpening at once. “Four?” he repeated, the unfocused edge leaving his voice at last. “Does this mean you have something on the gunman?”

Mycroft had shrugged in turn. “Nothing solid. But there clearly was one.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock had retorted, disappointed. 

“It’s been three days. Give my people some time.” Sherlock had looked away and not acknowledged this, so Mycroft had changed the subject. “Where’s John?”

“New Zealand.” Sherlock pronounced with distaste, as though this were a loathsome destination. 

He’d understood why immediately. “Ah. With Sarah.”

The jerk of shoulder confirmed this. 

“And this is why you’re smoking?” Mycroft let it come out as heavy on the sarcasm as he was thinking it. “Because your _flatmate_ has abandoned you on holiday with his girlfriend and isn’t here to prevent your self-destructive behaviour? Really, Sherlock. You surprise me.”

The withering look Sherlock had given him in response was followed by a string of profanities, but it had also come with him stubbing out the cigarette on the saucer of the teacup and Mycroft hadn’t caught him at it again until that night in the morgue, when he’d offered it himself. (Always on the alert for a potential slide. Even if it had only been recreational usage, and while Mycroft doubted strongly that Sherlock would allow himself to become addicted to anything other than cases and John Watson, it was better to take no chances. He needed Sherlock functional.)

As for that, Mrs Hudson had called one day not long after Sherlock’s case with the Chinese smuggling ring to quavering tell him that she had found a stash of something she suspected to be cocaine in Sherlock’s bedroom. Mycroft had asked if Sherlock was home or not (he wasn’t) and gone over immediately, confirming Mrs Hudson’s distressed report. It was a small amount, stashed inside a pair of deep purple trouser socks at the very back of Sherlock’s sock drawer. They had discussed it, Mycroft had confiscated it, and no one would have been the wiser had John not come home partway through and overheard the bulk of it. He’d been upset, Mrs Hudson even more so, showing clear signs of having regretted involving Mycroft. Though he had let her know discreetly about Sherlock’s occasional usage deliberately so that she _would_ think to let him know should there be any repeat incidents of usage. He’d called John a few days later to inquire about it. Predictably, there had been a confrontation. John had said, despite his reluctance to discuss it with Mycroft at all, that Sherlock had seemed very surprised by the entire affair, had apparently forgotten the stash was there at all and had stated that he hadn’t used in years. Mycroft had tracked the usage (too infrequent to even be labelled a habit, but again, with cocaine, it was best be attentive) and had not noticed any usage in recent years. He was quite convinced that the confrontation had been sufficient; Sherlock’s regard (even unrealised) for Watson was enough to relegate the drug to the past. He’d worried after that night in the morgue, though. Sherlock was questioning himself for the first time since having become a proper adult (although incidents like Buckingham Palace still made him question whether or not proper adulthood had yet been achieved) and Mycroft had been concerned. Needlessly, apparently, but he’d impressed upon Watson the importance of his presence. If a two-week holiday in New Zealand had been enough to bring on a relapse into smoking, questioning himself this way, with relation to, well, relations, could prove quite disastrous. Better for Sherlock to have his normal person, his touchstone around. 

Mycroft could admit to himself that he was unendurably curious to see where their curious relationship would go, when it would finally erupt one way or another. Either Sherlock would realise the truth of his feelings and keep them as hidden as possible, or John would guess them and either reject or accept them. Either way, it would change everything between them and many of the potentials outcomes were extremely negative regarding Sherlock’s personal progress and emotional health. Regardless, they seemed to have settled back into a regular routine of their usual local crime-solving work, while Mycroft went grimly about the business of rebuilding his cracked façade and shaken career. 

Mycroft pulled himself out of his reflections, lifted his glass of brandy to his mouth and drank. For all his considerable prowess at a cocktail party, it was time to take a heavier-handed approach. He needed to catch Moriarty and put an end to his organisation. 

***

He put every employee with adequate security clearance onto the task of finding Moriarty. He spent countless hours in tiny rooms illuminated primarily by the blue-white glow of laptop screens with cyber-security. He gave over the majority of his devices (phones, computers, personal wiring machinery, many of the various listening devices he had planted around the nation) for intensive examining, beyond the usual. He delegated away important overseas work in favour of his personal manhunt for Moriarty. Like himself, Moriarty operated in the shadows. Having emerged to taunt Sherlock had been an extremely rare appearance. He was a man who knew how not to be found. 

He was Mycroft. On the opposite side of the line that divided them. Brilliant. Ruthless. Cold. Though, based on Sherlock (and John’s) recounting of the pool scenario, he was also unpredictable, unstable, and altogether dangerous. (Despite Sherlock’s having introduced Mycroft to John as the most dangerous man John would ever meet. Mycroft still rolled his eyes at that particular piece of melodrama, although he’d been simultaneously flattered by Sherlock’s allusion to his importance.) 

The Coventry incident had left Mycroft wondering exactly which Holmes brother Moriarty was really targeting. For all of his expressed interest in Sherlock, combined with their shared history dating back to Carl Powers, it was Mycroft who had seemed to be the ultimate target in this most recent round with Irene Adler: it had been Mycroft she had called, not Sherlock, Mycroft’s project targeted by the terrorist organisation responsible for the bomb, and Mycroft left to settle the blackmail at the end of the day. Mycroft that Moriarty had gleefully texted the instant Adler had succeeded in using Sherlock to deduce that bloody email. Sherlock’s part in the drama had been a necessary but peripheral one. Was Mycroft the ultimate arch-nemesis, then, in Moriarty’s eyes? God knew he should be. He had vastly more power than Sherlock would ever hold. Any proper criminal would surely recognise that, and Moriarty was hardly one’s average criminal. 

***

The morning of the ninth of March, he received the call he’d been waiting for. His people had tracked a man operating under the alias of Michael Shanwick, an Irish-born human trafficker who had been taken down two years prior, by a branch of Intelligence supervised directly by Mycroft. It was an obvious taunt, a deliberate one. An invitation of sorts, twisted as it was: come and get me. Spelled out perfectly for Mycroft as clearly as though he had shouted it into a CCTV camera in Piccadilly Circus at high noon. Mycroft sent out the tactical teams and they returned with Moriarty bound hand and foot and buried in the deepest cell Mycroft could find. 

His instructions were clear: question him, under duress if need be. Find out what he’s up to. Find the endgame. 

***

After a solid month, all of his chief examiners (he still preferred to think of them that way) had come up empty. Moriarty had literally not uttered a word. One examiner went so far as to venture the opinion that Moriarty had become a mute. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft snapped at this. “I’ve heard him speak myself!”

The man hesitated. “Directly, though? I know he’s sent emails…”

Mycroft set down his coffee cup with a touch of force. “Of course directly! Through CCTV, albeit, but I’ve heard the man’s voice, Davidson.”

“Of course,” the agent said, ducking his chin in apology. “I just thought it was a possibility. He’s said _nothing_ in four weeks. Not a word.”

Mycroft glanced at his laptop, opened to a report on the latest extraction attempts. They had all proven frustratingly fruitless so far. Moriarty’s health was certainly suffering, but nothing had induced him to open his mouth so far. “Perhaps it’s time to try a new tactic.”

The agent gave a gesture something between a shrug and all-out irritation. “No disrespect intended, sir, but if you have any ideas, I don’t know that there’s anything we’ve left out with respect to the… usual methods. He just isn’t responding.”

Mycroft gave him a tight, oily, utterly insincere smile. “Then perhaps it’s time to try something… unusual. I’ll look after it.”

The examiner recognised this as the dismissal it was. His face shuttered a little, spine stiffening. “Yes, sir.”

After he’d gone, Mycroft sat at his desk for a long time, thinking. Twenty minutes elapsed. He made a decision, picked up his phone, pressed a single digit, and said, “Car.”

***

The cell was the most isolated Mycroft had been able to locate, kept well away from the sounds and sights of other prisoners. Subterranean, too surrounded by guards to be termed solitary confinement, but for all intents and purposes, it was that. He was fed. Or rather, he was offered food which he sometimes ate and sometimes ignored. The refusals were met by a face utterly bland and impressively impassive; Moriarty never let on whether his choice not to eat the green beans stemmed from a thorough childhood hatred of them, a fear of digestive chaos, or scorn at their plain preparation. Nor did he appear to relish any of the things which he did eat, and there was little pattern in his choices. Sometimes he ate the green beans and sometimes he didn’t; sometimes he ate the grilled chicken breast and sometimes it was left sitting untouched on the plate. Mycroft imagined he did it deliberately, to keep them from guessing anything about him. He did drink the water, though, particularly after he’d been denied it forty-eight hours running. 

He’d been tortured. Subtly and less so. Decidedly less so, over recent weeks. There were signs of the beginnings of permanent nerve damage in his left foot and the fingertips of his right hand. He’d been exposed to bright light for long periods of time. He’d been left alone and in the dark for stretches. Well – alone under observation, of course. He’d been offered the illusion of full solitude, though Mycroft doubted he’d fallen for it for a second. The walls of his cell were solid concrete, soundproof and soulless. He’d done nothing to try to mark them. Made no efforts at physical resistance to being handled, hurt, restrained, strapped down, nothing. He’d become extremely adept at exiting mentally while leaving his body to continue breathing, digesting, excreting, occasionally sleeping. One could have almost mistaken him for a post-lobotomy victim, except that Mycroft could personally attest to the kind of concentration keeping up that utterly impassive expression at all times must have taken. 

It was impressive. And frightening. The man was a rock wall, impenetrable. Mycroft had been watching him off and on, live through the two-way glass and over the security cameras’ live feed to his laptop. The people in the videos changed, two guards positioned over Moriarty’s prone body, open eyes gazing vaguely into the middle distance, now one guarding shouting with an arm raised, now three drenching Moriarty’s trim frame with cold water. Nothing had the slightest effect on him. Nothing whatsoever. However, if Mycroft’s private theory held, he was waiting for something else. Someone else. 

Aware of the invisible gaze of the cameras and the two agents on the other side of the glass, Mycroft swiped a digital keycard and walked into the sparsely-lit cell. 

James Moriarty sat in his accustomed pose facing the window, his back to the door. But without moving a muscle save in his eyes, his gaze shifted minutely to Mycroft’s reflection in the two-way glass. And then he closed his eyes. And smiled. 

***

The door swung closed behind him with a heavy finality. Neither man moved. Mycroft’s stare bored into the reflected image of the criminal in front of him, at his closed eyes and dreamy smile. The very smile made him want to strike Moriarty, and Mycroft was not a violent man. How he had retained such walls that the prolonged detainment, all of the best, most effective methods of interrogation known to MI6. How dare he still be capable of smiling. 

He stopped a metre behind Moriarty’s right shoulder. The eyes remained closed, the smile in place. Mycroft let the moment stretch out, tasting tension in the air. He opened his mouth to speak at last, but Moriarty was a second faster. “You’ve come,” he said, unmoving.

Mycroft felt his brows draw together. “Do you know who I am?”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Moriarty went on, as though he hadn’t spoken. “I knew you’d come eventually. Knew your dogs would give up after awhile.”

“We’ve never met,” Mycroft said, lifting his chin a notch. He was careful not to be photographed publically. Security risk. 

That caused the smile to slip a little. Dark-lashed, coal-black eyes opened at last. “Please,” Moriarty said, a heavy drawl now. “Mr Mycroft Holmes, in the flesh. Surely you know better by now.”

“Know better than…” Mycroft trailed off, frowning. 

The smile reappeared, dreamy, almost beatific. “Than to underestimate me. You’ve done it time and time again. You’re still doing it. You’ll probably keep _on_ doing it, too.” On the word _on_ his voice took on a different sound, throatier. The shift was unsettling. 

Mycroft’s hands were clasped behind his back. Now he released his grip on his own wrists and walked around to face Moriarty, his back to the glass. Looked down on the criminal in overt disapproval. “Bold words for a man sitting in a concrete bunker surrounded in the highest level of security known to this nation.”

That got him an eyeroll. “Oh, please,” Moriarty said, in that same tone. “You and I both know that I wouldn’t be here unless I wanted to be.”

Mycroft felt his eyebrows lift. “You must have interesting predilections, if this is how you ‘choose’ to spend your time.”

A laugh, starting high-pitched, dropping weirdly and rising again: bizarre. “You’re doing it again,” Moriarty chided, his voice sing-song. “What did I tellllllll youuuu?”

His eyes were still closed and it was beginning to make Mycroft angry. “What could you possibly gain from getting captured deliberately? Oh, I agree that your signals were clear enough, but I assumed it was intended merely as a taunt. Why would you want to be here?”

The dark eyes opened, liquid and fathoms-deep. “It got me you,” Moriarty said, the voice hollow and low now. “It got me you… Mycroft.”

Something like a shiver rustled down his spine. He frowned, kept his voice utterly calm. “Well. Here I am. What do you want?”

“Everything,” Moriarty whispered. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking up from below those finely-arched brows. His skin was pale and clammy from having been kept underground for over a month now, but there was a weird, unearthly beauty to his changeable features. 

Mycroft allowed his gaze to be held. “Such as?” He sounded bored.

“Wanted to have a proper chat,” Moriarty replied, voice going laconic now. He straightened up and crossed one knee over the other. “Why don’t you sit down?”

Mycroft sighed. There was another chair in the corner. He went to get it and swung it around, facing Moriarty. “I suppose next you’ll want tea service.”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

“Forget it. What do you want?”

Moriarty ignored this, smiling serenely, a touch of mischief playing around the corners of his mouth. “Isn’t this nice,” he remarked. “Finally: a private audience with the illustrious, terribly-occupied, terribly-important Mycroft Holmes. Forgive me: do you have a middle name? I hate to stand on ceremony, but you’re someone who cares about titles and doing a thing properly. I’d hate to call you by anything less than your full name.”

Mycroft felt the corners of his mouth twitch in annoyance. “That _is_ my full name.”

“No middle name?” Moriarty considered this, fingers lacing themselves together over one knee. “I suppose your parents thought ‘Mycroft’ and ‘Sherlock’ quite sufficient to saddle their sons with. Were you teased horribly at school? No, of course not; you would have gone to some stuffy public school where all the other boys had preposterous names like yours. Stanford and Warwick and Peregrine and Herbert. Did you have friends, Mycroft Holmes?”

Mycroft remained obstinately silent, lifted his chin an inch or so, unimpressed with this blather and waited for Moriarty to come round to a point. 

The smile slipped a little and Moriarty bent forward again, searching Mycroft’s eyes. “No, of course not,” he said, almost as though to himself. “You would have built a ring of allies and acquaintances but real friends? No, not you. Friends are – how would you put it, not an asset? It’s that, isn’t it. Yes. The Ice Man. I was right about you all along, Mr Mycroft Holmes.”

“Please do get on with it,” Mycroft said, unmoved. 

“With what?”

“Your point. I’m still waiting for you to make one.”

Something glittered in those dark eyes – amusement? Malice? “I’m making one,” Moriarty said, his tone oddly unreadable. “I’ve been making one all along.”

Mycroft stood. “I don’t see that we’re accomplishing anything here, other than wasting my time.”

Moriarty’s head craned up, following Mycroft’s face. “Your time. What could you possibly have to do that’s better than this? We both know you’re just going to go back to the other side of the glass, or back to a laptop where you can watch from afar. Why not just stay and observe in person? You know you want to. You know you prefer it this way, for once.”

“Prefer it which way?” He almost hated having asked the question, but he threw it back like a return volley of fire. 

“Face to face, for once,” Moriarty said, all amusement gone from his face, replaced by something cold and heavy and dark. Eyes locked on Mycroft’s, menacing. “In the line of fire.”

Mycroft’s lip twisted. “Fire? Sorry, I thought I was speaking with a handcuffed federal prisoner wearing leg chains in a concrete bunker. I fail to perceive any… threat.”

The eyes closed again, the smile reappearing. “Doing it again,” Moriarty sang. “I warned you.”

Mycroft considered for a moment, then sat down again. “What do you want?” he repeated, trying to hold back his annoyance. 

Moriarty shifted to the front edge of his chair, suddenly much closer to Mycroft, nearly in his face. “I want a proper chat,” he repeated, voice low, eyes intense. “Turn the cameras off and lose the men in the room. The microphones, too. All of it. And then we can talk.”

“Impossible.” Mycroft said immediately, letting a touch of scorn edge the word. 

“I’m bound hand and foot,” Moriarty said, voice still low and somewhere between persuasive and urgent. “What could I possibly do? I just want to talk without an audience, now that I’ve got you at last. Otherwise I’ll just continue holding out and chatting about nothing whatsoever. You know I can do it, hold out forever. Easy-peasy.”

Mycroft studied him for a long moment. “I’m sure there’s a trap to it somewhere. What could you want from just talking to me?”

Moriarty shrugged and straightened up. His tone changing again, going loopy and curiously disturbing, he said, “Where’s your umbrella, Mycroft Holmes? Never see you without it, like a third leg or something. Everyone knows about you and your umbrella. Did you suddenly learn how to walk without it, or have you and your precious brolly gone and had yourselves a little upset?”

It was maddening, this inane chatter. Mycroft weighed the idea in his head. What harm _could_ it do? He had not engaged in heavy physical action in a goodly while, but surely he could hold his own against a prisoner weakened by gentle starvation, mild dehydration, and over a month of near motionlessness. “If I have them switch off the monitoring devices, you’ll say something worth listening to?” 

Moriarty placed a slender, pale hand over his heart. “I give my word.”

“That,” Mycroft said dryly, “is not worth much.”

“Please,” Moriarty said. The word was plain: no funny tones of voice, no added layers. His eyes looked as honest as it was possible for a pathological liar to look. 

Mycroft wavered internally, then made a firm decision, despite his doubts. He could handle himself. It would be fine, he told himself. He stood and went to the door and opened it. Two agents were standing outside, earpieces in place. One of them spoke before he could. 

“Sir, I have to advise against this, if you’re considering it,” he said. “Not my place, perhaps, but – ”

Mycroft focused and pulled the name up from his internal archives. “Thank you, Walters, that will do.”

“Of course, sir, my apologies.” The agent ducked his chin in deference and promptly shut his mouth. 

“I want the cameras switched off. All of them. And I want the observation cell evacuated immediately. The two of you will remain here in the case that I require your assistance, but I will take your earpieces now.” Mycroft held out his hand for them. 

The second agent glanced at his partner, hesitating. “Sir,” he said, though already pulling the device from his ear, “Walters does have a point, sir. It’s a very high risk.”

“One I can handle. Thank you.”

“Sir – ” he tried again, but Mycroft cut him off. 

“That will do. Walters, go and inform the observation team that I want all electronic surveillance equipment temporarily switched off. Then come back and tell me when it has been done. Do it now.” His voice was steel, cold and smooth. He expected to be obeyed when he spoke, and he was. Walters disappeared around the corner without another word. 

The second agent, Jameson, sighed and subsided into silence. Mycroft made no attempt to fill the silence with pointless smalltalk. When Walters returned and reported that the observation cell was empty and all surveillance powered off, Mycroft gave him a curt nod. “See that I am undisturbed. I will fetch you if there is need.”

The agents glanced at each other, nodded, and despite evident reluctance, stepped back and allowed him to return to the cell. 

Moriarty had not moved. Mycroft watched him a moment, glanced at the camera in the corner. The blinking red light was off. He slid the earpieces into the pocket of his trousers and walked slowly back toward the window and turned to face Moriarty once again. Sliding the chair back an inch or two, he deliberately arranged himself onto it and crossed his legs at the knee. “So,” he said. “Your private audience.”

Moriarty smiled, a smile that from anyone else would have seemed friendly, a touch mischievous, utterly harmless. “Thanks,” he said, still grinning. “Appreciate it.”

Mycroft didn’t return the smile. “What did you want to discuss?”

Moriarty glanced at Mycroft’s legs and crossed his own in obvious imitation, which the chain of his leg irons just allowed for. “Heavy, these,” he remarked lightly, as though commenting on the weather. “Not really necessary, I’m fairly small. Don’t know if you’d noticed. Do you notice things like that, Mycroft Holmes? Of course you do: you’re Sherlock’s brother, only older and even smarter, aren’t you? The question is, what do you do with those thoughts? Do you just file them away, or is there ever a practical application? Is it all just theory, Mycroft? Just facts? Does not of it ever touch you?”

Mycroft felt the corners of his mouth tugging in impatience again. “What is this? What are you getting at?”

“Not getting anywhere much yet, am I? You haven’t answered a single question I’ve asked you.”

“And that’s what you want,” Mycroft hypothesised. “To ask me questions?”

“Yes,” Moriarty said, simply. “Will you answer my questions, Mycroft Holmes, Mr Ice Man in the flesh? That does bother you, by the way?”

“Does what bother me?”

“You’re answering a question with a question.” Moriarty tsk-ed in mock disapproval. “That’s no way to begin.”

“Clarification required,” Mycroft replied. “Does what bother me?”

“Being flesh. Wouldn’t you rather be Iron Man, cased in steel and untouchable? Although Tony Stark is nothing but emotion. So weak. Wouldn’t you rather eliminate emotion and the weaknesses of the flesh entirely?”

The eyes were wide open in mock sincerity. Mycroft found them hard to look away from. “I believe that a man is capable of distancing himself from such weaknesses at need,” he said shortly. “Flesh is only flesh. The mind is stronger.”

“Depends on the mind,” Moriarty said, but his tone agreed. “So that’s what you do? You rule your body with your mind, is that it? No messy compromises, no emotional baggage to carry about. That’s how you do it. You know, of the two of you, you really are the heartless one, aren’t you?”

“Of the two of whom?”

“Question with a question,” Moriarty chided, sing-song. “And you know the answer, Mycroft.”

“You mean Sherlock and I.”

“Of course.” Impatience now. “Who else would I be talking about?”

Mycroft shrugged. “It seems rather irrelevant.”

“What? The heart?”

Mycroft nearly smiled. “Now you’re answering with a question.”

“We’ve already established that I’m asking and you’re answering,” Moriarty said. “And how is it irrelevant? Huge weakness, having a heart. And everyone does. Except possibly you.”

Mycroft let the dark gaze bore into his eyes for a long moment. “It’s not a question of the capability of caring. It’s a question of choice. And yes, I have chosen to keep my personal liabilities to a minimum. It’s for the best.”

“And, being a wise older brother, I imagine you’ve tried to teach Sherlock this, with regards to his pet,” Moriarty said, amusement colouring his words. “His liability is _so_ obvious, don’t you think?”

Mycroft felt his lips tighten and didn’t know how to respond to this. 

Moriarty watched this and shrugged. “You don’t have to say it, it doesn’t matter. I know, and Sherlock knows I know. Dr Watson knows it, too. You should have seen Sherlock’s face when he saw Watson with the all semtex. I thought he was going to wet himself.”

The twinge of annoyance Mycroft felt at this was enough confirmation that Moriarty knew exactly what Sherlock’s greatness vulnerability was. It was one thing for Mycroft to be aware (and disapproving) of it, but when it was that obvious to Sherlock’s greatest enemy, it was a problem. Why could Sherlock not see that?

Moriarty went on, a strange smile still playing about his lips. “What do you think would be worse for Sherlock: seeing Watson killed in front of him, or having Watson watch him die?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said, forcing his tone to sound bored. “Is that really what you wanted to talk to me about? You could just buy a tabloid and read all the speculations about the two of them there.”

“Ah, but we both know the tabloids aren’t true,” Moriarty grinned. “If Sherlock had managed to finally have sex with something, he’d be a lot less edgy. So would you, for that matter.” He began to laugh suddenly, high-pitched and echoing in the small room. “I just had a brilliant realisation! Sex is kryptonite to the Holmes brothers!”

Mycroft gave a long, deliberate sigh. “What a very interesting theory.”

“Have you ever had it?” Suddenly the laughter was gone, the intense gaze back, boring a hole through his brain.

Mycroft frowned. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Moriarty wagged a finger at him, like a nanny to a naughty child. “That’s not how this works, Mycroft Holmes. Answer the question.”

“Of course I have,” Mycroft said, a touch angry despite himself. “What kind of a question is that?”

“A real one. What species of humanity was it, then? I’m ever so curious, to know what sort of… person the Ice Man would have chosen.”

“What makes you think there was only one?” Mycroft retorted. 

“Just a theory.” Moriarty shrugged, then brought out smile that one might have used on primary school children. “It’s all right to share, Mycroft, this is a safe space. Just confessions between old friends.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I answer this question and then you start talking. Or I leave.”

“Or you leave, and you never get any information from me,” Moriarty said matter-of-factly. “Ever, and that’s a promise, Mr Holmes.” He placed both pale, manacled hands over his heart. 

Mycroft fought a brief internal battle. “Fine,” he said after a moment. “It was – a young man from my university days. His name was Adam.”

“How many times did you see him?”

“Twice,” Mycroft said curtly.

“And then what happened?” Moriarty appeared to be hanging on his every word, an act meant to wind him up. He knew better. 

“I ended it,” Mycroft said, clipped. “It was too… complicated.”

“Messy,” Moriarty corrected. He leaned back, apparently satisfied with Mycroft’s story. “You started to have feelings and couldn’t bear it, and went back to your original policy of pretending things like that – feelings, and being physical about them – didn’t exist any more.”

Mycroft glanced away. “Something like that.”

“And you just never think about it now?”

“No. One can make a choice.”

“One can,” Moriarty agreed. “And Sherlock made the same choice? Did you suggest it to him?”

“Sherlock… had less choice about it, I think,” Mycroft said, still looking away. “He had no friends. He was incredibly isolated in school.”

“Lacked your charm, did he?” Moriarty was all malice, but only one inch below the surface. At face value, he looked completely sincere, but hadn’t made a real effort to hide the fact that he was still poking fun. 

Mycroft felt himself growing irritated. “Yes, in a word,” he spat. “Sherlock always lacked the ability, or at least the willingness, to ingratiate himself with others. He just didn’t seem to care; he was absorbed in his own thoughts and projects and never seemed to want other people around him.”

“Until now.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said grudgingly. 

“And do you imagine he’s had a change of heart on the physicality issue?” Moriarty examined his fingernails, frowned at one. 

The pretence at a lack of interest was so obvious that Mycroft could have laughed. “Possibly,” he said. “Not that I think he would know what to about it.”

“It’s fun imagining it, though, isn’t it?” Moriarty grinned again. “Cute little thing, John Watson. They seem so opposite, but I can see it working rather well.”

“I’ve never given it much thought.”

“Liar.”

Mycroft recrossed his legs the other way. “All right, you’ve had your fun. Now that we’ve finished discussing my sex life and my brother’s lack thereof, tell me something important.”

Moriarty regarded him for a longish while, head tilted to one side. He placed his hands on his knee and knitted the fingers together. “Has it ever occurred to you to ask why I’ve always gone after Sherlock all these years?” he asked. 

“That’s another question.”

“That’s the beginning of an answer,” Moriarty corrected him. “Go on, then.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Not really. Carl Powers. You started out together. Sherlock was always in your way.”

“And yet,” Moriarty said, “and yet it was always his older brother who had all the real power. Wasn’t it?”

Mycroft let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “True,” he said after a moment, unsure how else to answer. It _was_ true, and he had wondered exactly that. 

“Has it never occurred to you that Sherlock was always a means to an end?”

Mycroft looked directly into Moriarty’s eyes. They were unshuttered, open, as honest as they probably ever got. He saw. He understood. “You were never really going after him.”

The eyes didn’t leave his for a moment. “I am,” Moriarty said, voice soft, yet absolutely deadly calm, “the centre and driving force, the mastermind of a criminal organisation so large that most of its branches don’t know themselves, much less the other branches. I orchestrate all of it. I connect it all. Most terrorist organisations in the world can trace their sources, their funding, their connections, their methods, and their tactics back to me. I launder their funds. I provide them with outlets upon which to wreak their havoc. I am the conductor of an orchestra of chaos. And who, Mycroft Holmes, is my proper opposite in all this? Who has his fingers in political pies all over the world – the scandal in Moravia three months ago, the Korean election, the peace talks being brokered in Libya, the CIA affair in Johannesburg two years ago. Whose fingers have bumped against mine in the great, dark underworld out there? Sherlock Holmes, the amateur detective in the ridiculous deer stalker, playing his little games with the local police and squatters under Waterloo Bridge? Do you really think I’m concerned with who it is or isn’t that he’s having sex with, in the great scheme of things? Or was this all an elaborate game to get the attention of a man otherwise rather too occupied for the likes of little old me? What do you think, Mycroft?”

Mycroft had several hundred thoughts at once as all of the dots connected themselves at the same time, but they primarily condensed into, _It was me all along, not Sherlock_ and then _Oh God, I’ve locked myself in a tiny cell with him without any observation or protection_. He attempted to breathe deeply and to remind himself that Moriarty was unarmed and bound hand and foot. “It wasn’t Sherlock you were after,” he heard himself saying, voice dry and wooden. 

Moriarty leaned forward, coal-black eyes like two bottomless holes in his skull. “No, Mycroft,” he said. “It was you. It was always you.”

Mycroft shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. “How did you even – how did you know about all that, Johannesburg, Seoul – ”

“You’re underestimating me again.” The voice was low and serious, almost a hint of a threat. “Don’t do that to me, Mycroft. You ought to know better than that by now. After all, I _know_ you. I know how you work. I know how you think. I am completely and utterly obsessed with you. You know that, don’t you.”

It wasn’t a question. Mycroft felt… odd. He’d never quite experienced a feeling parallel to this. Was it that he felt flattered? He supposed he was flattered, but it was more than that. No one had ever really noticed _him_ before, and that was always supposed to be the point, wasn’t it? He worked in his quiet circles, having the right, discreet conversations at the right times, meetings behind closed doors, over decades-old whisky and making the right phone calls at the right moments. He’d never cared for glory or adulation or being celebrated. He cared about being efficient and effective, and he was. But there was something vaguely vindicating about this, some private sense of triumph, even self-satisfaction, in Moriarty having noticed him and acknowledged him as exactly what he was. Proper credit given where it was due. Yes. He should be allowed to be feeling satisfied by that, he thought. “Yes,” he said, finally acknowledging what Moriarty had said. “I suppose that’s becoming rather clear.”

A brilliant smile, one that was entirely at odds with the coldness in Moriarty’s eyes appeared on his face. “You like it,” he stated. “Has no one ever been obsessed with you before, Mycroft Holmes?”

“I don’t suppose I know,” Mycroft allowed. “It’s been very elaborate, this. And now that you’ve got my attention, what do you want with it? Are we going to duel to the death now, like proper arch-nemeses?”

Moriarty’s face fell, just a little. “No,” he said, almost sounding disappointed. “Of course not. I don’t want to hurt you. I admire you far too much for that. I just want to know more about you. Eventually, after you’ve let me go, I imagine we’ll continue this dance, me doing what I do and you doing what you do, and that will be our lifelong duel, Mycroft. We’ll dance as long as we live, until one of us stops the other entirely. You see, you can’t stop my work by having incarcerated me. Most of them don’t even know who I am; the machine I’ve created goes on without me just the same. So one day, you’ll let me go and we’ll see, ultimately, who wins. I just wanted the chance to meet you, face-to-face, and express my admiration for once. I couldn’t do that in front of the cameras. Not on official record. Those people, those little people out there, they don’t deserve to sit by with popcorn and watch the meeting of the two greatest minds of their time.”

Mycroft privately agreed. “We could have sold tickets,” he said wryly, simultaneously savouring the fact that Moriarty prized his mind over Sherlock’s celebrated intelligence. 

Moriarty laughed, a genuine laugh, ringing off the concrete walls. “You have a sense of humour! Who knew!” 

“Not many people,” Mycroft said, trying to sound aloof, but it just came out stiffly. “So, is that it, then?”

The laughter died as suddenly as it had started. “No,” Moriarty pleaded. “Not yet. Not just yet. Tell me more, Mycroft Holmes. Tell me about your childhood. When did you leave for school?”

“When I was eight,” Mycroft said. “The traditional age. My father was a traditionalist.” What could it hurt to share? It was an auto-biography he’d never publish. 

“So Sherlock was just an infant?”

“Just one,” Mycroft confirmed. “I only saw him some week-ends and at major holidays.”

“So you were never close, then.”

“No.”

“Were you close to your traditionalist father? No,” Moriarty said, answering himself before Mycroft could. “You admired him, hence your own traditionalist style, but you were never as close as you wished to be. He was difficult to please, I assume. And your mother?”

“More interested in playing bridge than in raising her children,” Mycroft said. This time it was definitely stiff. “My father was the brilliant one, an accountant and mad for jigsaw and crossword puzzles. My mother had her own friends, her own interests.”

“You inherited your father’s intelligence. And Sherlock his love for puzzles.” The eyes glittered in amusement again. “I see, I see…”

“What?” Mycroft couldn’t help asking. “What do you see?”

“Tell me more,” Moriarty said, instead of explaining. “What school did you go to?”

Mycroft found himself talking, at greater length than he’d ever spoken about himself or his personal life before. They talked mostly about him, but now and then Moriarty would throw in a related question concerning Sherlock, at least until Mycroft steered the conversation back to himself. It was the first time anyone had been so patently interested in him, and he could admit to himself privately that there was a decided pleasantness to the feeling. Perhaps that was what Sherlock liked so much about Watson: the simple fact that Watson was so endlessly interested in him, and interested in voicing his praise for him. Surely that was addictive. 

He barely noticed that Moriarty had slid to his knees in front of him, in the middle of an anecdote from Cambridge days. Mycroft heard his words fade and die. “What… what are you…”

“You’re brilliant,” Moriarty murmured, almost worshipfully. “You brilliant man. We – you and I – we are meant to be each other’s worthiest opponents, like two magnets that will always repel one another, but you know how much I admire and respect you for being exactly what you are, and we will never be alone together like this again. You know it and I know it. So – just this once – let me properly demonstrate my… admiration, Mycroft Holmes.”

He lowered his face to Mycroft’s lap before Mycroft could anticipate or stop him. He heard himself gasp. No one – _no one_ had touched him there, in any way, in years. Decades, literally. He was soft, his penis the docile creature he had allowed it to become, lying quietly and without trouble in his trousers. Moriarty was breathing on it, his breath hot and moist through the layers of fabric. He had to say something, this was ridiculous and wholly unwelcome and entirely inappropriate. “M – Mor – stop,” he tried, squirming in discomfort, trying to edge himself further back into his chair. 

Moriarty ignored him entirely, and despite himself and his firm thoughts, Mycroft felt himself begin to stir. That quickly? he asked himself in chastened disappointment. Perhaps it had been building from the flattery he’d felt, the pleasure in having been taken notice of by someone who was in a position to accurately judge his abilities. Still – it should not feel pleasant at all to have the face of a criminal mastermind, a terrorist, on his knees in front of him with his face buried in Mycroft’s crotch. _Coventry_ , he thought, and tried to say, but the words died in his throat. Moriarty dug the tip of his nose into the burgeoning growth in Mycroft’s trousers. “That doesn’t feel like ‘stop’,” he breathed, a low laugh gathering in his throat. 

Mycroft groaned, hating the tendril of pleasure beginning to seep through his flesh. “I don’t – I didn’t – ”

“Surprisingly inarticulate,” Moriarty drawled, playful. He brought his manacled hands jointly to the waistband of Mycroft’s woollen trousers and looked up at him. “There’s no one watching,” he whispered. “You ensured that yourself. We have this one moment, opposite to opposite, sparring partner to sparring partner, mind to mind. Body to body. One moment that the history books will never see, but we will know. My obsession: you, Mycroft Holmes, the Ice Man. I am the fire lighting the world. Let me melt you, Mycroft Holmes, just this once. No one will ever know.”

 _No one will ever know._ The words repeated themselves in Mycroft’s head as he heard himself gasp again. It had been so long, so long since he had been touched, since anyone had laid hands on his body. _No one will ever know._ His trousers were opening, cold metal briefly touching his skin. He closed his eyes and felt fingers pulling him free, the pleasure stronger now, spiking abruptly, almost heart-stoppingly, as Moriarty’s warm mouth engulfed him. He was the fire and Mycroft was so cold. No one would ever know. Moriarty was certifiably insane; if he ever claimed it, Mycroft would deny it and no one would dare to question him. His eyes opened to see those fathomless black eyes waiting for his, mouth stretched around Mycroft’s (vulnerable/liable/compromised) flesh. He threw his head back and heard the air leave his lungs in a gush, raw with an edge of voice. 

_No one will ever know._

He gave himself over to it. 

***

When it was finished, he could barely think. His throat was raw from the sounds he’d made, coming with a particularly violent jerk down Moriarty’s flexible throat, heartbeat thudding against his eardrums. He pulled himself together and realised in an instant, in that terrifying clarity that he seemed to remember could emerge only after a regrettable act has been committed, that nothing about what had just happened was acceptable. At all. Pressing his mouth together, Mycroft retrieved his errant flesh and reassembled his clothing. He looked down. 

Moriarty was still kneeling in front of him, looking up, hands meekly folded on his thighs, and Mycroft had the wit to see that he wasn’t hard. Perhaps he had already… ? Impossible to know without asking, and he wasn’t going to ask. “I must go,” he said. 

“Of course,” Moriarty said, voice a little rough, understandably. He bowed his face. “It’s been a privilege, Mycroft Holmes. At last. In the flesh.” He looked up again, the hint of a smile playing about his lips. “Until next time.”

Mycroft got to the door without having come up with a response. Eventually, he just left. 

***

After a curt word with the agents at the door, he returned their earpieces and instructed Walters to fetch the rest of the security team and to commence the observation process per usual. And only after that, did he allow himself to retreat into the back of one of his many cars and from there to the privacy of his flat. 

He watched the live feed later on his laptop. Moriarty had picked himself up and resumed sitting and staring out into space after he’d left. He ate peas and ground beef and ignored his mashed potatoes that night. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

The next day, Mycroft returned to the prison’s observation cell. Grant, the agent in charge, told him there’d been no change in behaviour since the meeting with Mycroft. “All right,” Mycroft said at last. Now that he knew why Moriarty had let himself be captured, surely he’d got what he’d come for it, as it were. “Let him go.”

Grant left, took two agents, and Moriarty was escorted from the premises. Grant himself remained behind. The usual dim lighting disappeared when Grant switched on all of the lights. From the other side of the glass, Mycroft saw his expression change. He touched his earpiece. “Sir,” he said, into Mycroft’s ear. “You’d… you’d best come and see this.”

Mycroft frowned, but said he was coming, and went around to the door. The walls, unmarked yesterday and every day before, had been scratched with what later evidence would show to be a concrete chip. Every available surface had been engraved with a single word: 

_SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK_

Every possible belated realisation manifested itself immediately. Viscerally. Mycroft turned and made it three long strides down the corridor before he was violently ill. 

***

In the days and weeks following, he asked himself where he had misunderstood, and what damage he had done. Moriarty had played him perfectly, with as much skill as Sherlock at the violin. Sherlock: his actual opposite, despite what Mycroft had believed, and his true obsession. And _target_ , God damn it. What had he _done_? Sherlock had never been out of the line of fire, and this time, Mycroft himself had fed it, fed the fire. Had fed it with information, for even the smallest words and gestures could tell an observer like Moriarty – or Sherlock – a world of information. Witness how he’d managed to work Mycroft, whom he’d never met, presumably based on Sherlock’s unwitting revelations about him. It was a disaster. It was a nightmare. And surely, his brother was the one who would pay for it. Mycroft vowed to himself that he would never tell him his role in it, that he would throw every ounce of his power into providing security for Sherlock (and John) and head the disaster off before it happened. He increased security to unprecedented levels. He had agents monitor and sometimes physically shadow his brother almost everywhere he went.

Meanwhile, alarmingly, Sherlock’s star appeared to be rising. He was everywhere at once, solving larger and larger crimes, verging on the international level. The thank-you gifts were becoming more valuable. The press attention rose. He listened with worried amusement to an exchange in the sitting room at Baker Street, or rather, two parallel conversations: Watson adjured Sherlock about the media attention while Sherlock whined about the deer stalker. Watson had it down, though; his concern was warranted. And how would they all know which case would be the one, the trip-wire that led not to some local bumbling criminal or domestic blow-up, but to Moriarty and a vastly deeper and more sinister pool of goings-on? Mycroft worried constantly, checking and re-checking video feeds and printed reports. Perhaps he should clue the detective inspector in, let him know that something potentially very large was coming along. They had spoken before, not just during the Baskerville incident, but other times when Mycroft had caught wind of Sherlock’s doings and sent Lestrade to intervene before Sherlock crossed too many legal lines and got himself arrested (again). But what else could he say to the detective inspector now? There was no data to offer, no specific signs to watch for. Moriarty was as unpredictable as could be and they would likely never gain the upper hand on him. They: the circle around Sherlock. His Boswell, John Watson. His landlady. The detective inspector and his team. Mycroft and his armada of security. What further precautions could he take to pre-emptively erase his unintended betrayal? Could he alert John somehow? It was growing progressively more and more difficult to speak to John without Sherlock knowing, and John had also grown more and more perceptive. Sherlock’s influence, and Sherlock still followed him if he got the wind up about something. No, Mycroft finally decided. He would offer no warnings until there was data to offer with them. And then he would decide who should see it, where the warning would be most effective. 

He began to sleep less. 

***

“Good morning, sir.” 

“Good morning, Walters. What can I do for you?”

“Apologies for calling so early, sir, but you said first priority. Got some strange activity on Baker Street.”

Mycroft was still in bed but had not been asleep when the phone rang. He sat up. “What sort of activity?”

“New tenant across the street. Did background checks, and I don’t think you’ll like it, sir.”

“Intelligence?”

“Hardly. Assassin, from the looks of it.”

Mycroft was on his feet. “I want everything on him. Fax it.”

“Yes sir, straight away. Someone’s on it now. Another thing.”

He was hardly breathing. “Go on.”

“There were three other vacancies on the block and all three have been taken down, between last night and this morning.”

“I want to know who those people are,” Mycroft ordered. “ _Now_.”

“Yes sir, absolutely. We’re already looking. Give us an hour.”

“As soon as possible. What about 221B?”

“Situation normal, sir. Nothing unusual.” Walters’ tone was a bit dry; he frequently found the goings-on of 221B Baker Street unusual, despite Mycroft having explained that minor explosions in the kitchen, gunshots, and evidence of human body parts were to be considered routine. 

“Good. Report at once if anything changes.”

“Of course, sir. Good morning.”

Walters disconnected and Mycroft went to his laptop. Even his desire for security stopped at actually putting a camera inside the flat, but he had placed a recording device in the sitting room, at least. Sherlock would indubitably find it one day, but of late he’d been too busy and hadn’t noticed. Mycroft adjusted levels, fiddled with a headset, then slid it on and backed up to the early morning. For this feed, he had given only himself access. Surely his brother deserved _some_ privacy. He listened to Watson begin bickering about the proximity of something decaying in the fridge to his lunch, or at least try to bicker; Sherlock was mostly non-responsive. Eventually he said something snide under his breath (Mycroft adjusted the volume, frowning) to one of Watson’s volleys. That stopped the nattering and made John laugh, whatever it was. John responded by reminding Sherlock of some incident in a restaurant a few weeks back (Mycroft was mystified) and now Sherlock’s low laugh joined Watson’s higher giggle. With a startled pang, Mycroft realised he was smiling, listening to them. They sounded like an old, married couple. If they would only realise that they were, what they had, or were on the verge of having. And was that jealousy? Perhaps, but more important was his ever-growing worry. 

Unfortunately for Sherlock, Mycroft was rarely wrong about his gut feelings, and this time, he was worried that the situation was irreparable. Moriarty was surely coming for Sherlock and while Mycroft could watch through a thousand lenses, he would still likely never see it in time. 

***

The reports were as bad as he’d feared. Four assassins. It was time to contact John. John was as taciturn and unhelpful as expected, perhaps even more so. Sherlock’s influence, again. John used to be more receptive to him. Mycroft tried to keep himself calm and sounding in control, not to let on that Watson’s eye-rolling was making him grit his teeth so hard he’d need another trip to the dentist, but he kept his professional mask in place, pleasant smiles all round. After he left, Mycroft wondered how John would react if he found out what Mycroft had done. He hoped he would never have to find out. 

***

He did find out, though John never knew the full story, why or how or what exactly came about. He’d deduced, on his own somehow – Sherlock really was rubbing off on him – that Moriarty’s information had come from Mycroft. It was uncomfortable in the extreme, and by the end of the meeting, he felt worse than he’d felt the moment he’d received Moriarty’s text about the Coventry project. 

John finished his diatribe – his deduction – and stood. Mycroft swallowed. He had to say something. He could not recall a moment in his life when he’d felt as wretched, or loathed himself as much. “John,” he said, horribly strained. “I’m sorry.”

John’s derisive laugh cut deeply. “Oh, _please_.” He turned on his heel and strode out. 

“Tell him, would you.” It was quiet, but he knew Watson heard it, though he didn’t acknowledge it as he left, leaving the heavy wooden door open behind him. 

Mycroft sat where he was a moment longer, weltering in unpleasant feeling, then got up and shut the door quietly. He went to his desk, sat down, and put his face into his hands. 

***

It was Lestrade who called later. From the moment Mycroft saw the name appear on his mobile, he knew that it was bad news, knew it before he heard the detective’s voice. The hesitation, the struggle to find words, everything about it. Nonetheless, Mycroft was unprepared for the shock. 

Sherlock, his only brother, was dead. 

***

 

 

_To be continued in Part II_


End file.
